


Ain't Never Been the Talking Kind

by callmelyss



Series: The Stranger That You Keep [2]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Comfort, Divorced Han and Leia, Han POV, Han Solo trying his best, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Light Side AU, M/M, Pre-Slash, benarmie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 13:50:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15664470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmelyss/pseuds/callmelyss
Summary: Ben’s waiting for him to say something. It’s his damnjobto say something, the right something. Only it’s so much more complicated than a scraped knee. More lasting than a nightmare. He’s been thinking on it all week, but the words still aren’t there.What can he say?Sorry the whole Jedi thing didn’t work out, son.—Han considers what to do next.





	Ain't Never Been the Talking Kind

**Author's Note:**

> The stowaway 'verse continues. Inexplicably.
> 
> Very brief allusion to speculated Wedge/Luke, as well as discussion of why Han and Leia didn't work out.

Parenting, in Han’s experience, has always involved waiting. 

And no, no one told him that. He had to learn it.

You wait in the middle of the night when they wail to see if they find their way back to sleep on their own, sniffling in their crib. You wait when they take a tumble to see if they get up and keep running, not minding the bump. Later, you wait and you wait and you _wait_ when you know they’re scared or confused or hurting, wait for them to ask for you, to say “Dad” in that way they always used to so, so easily. When it was as simple as rocking them back to sleep or applying bacta to a scraped knee or joking away their nightmares.

You wait for them to need you again; you hope to hells, too, that they never will.

And sure, yeah, this is a new one, waiting for his kid to emerge from his bunk so they can talk about the myriad ways in which the galaxy has completely kriffed him over and upended his life _yet again._ Figure out what the hells to do next. And while they’re at it, decide what to do, too, with the other boy, the stowaway he’d found cuddled up with Ben like a stray loth-kitten this morning. But what’s another question to answer when the first is _now what?_

Yeah, there's more than enough to talk about.

Until then: waiting. Han can do that.

He pours himself a second cup of caf and he sits at the terminal and checks up on the old girl, system by system. She’s in pretty good shape these days, for once, the hyperdrive newly updated and the computer not throwing a tantrum, and they had been lucky, it's true, that she’d been in one of her good moods when Ben called him and that he hadn’t been far away. It had only taken a couple cycles, although it felt longer, with how that message had sunk into his chest, still caught and knotted between his lungs. _Dad…can you—can you come get me?_ _Please?_

And if he hadn’t heard it in Ben’s voice that this was a bad business, real trouble, the gutted look Luke gave him when he landed would have told him immediately. Then, the halting way he had explained that Ben had been targeted—and of _course_ he kriffing had, still a Skywalker despite everything they tried to layer over it—and that it was over now, but that it was _over_ , too, something snapped between the two of them in the process, that necessary bond between a Jedi teacher and student Han hadn’t ever completely understood. 

 _We never should have left him there_.

They’ve had that conversation, though, him and Leia; they had it more times than he can count. And it turned out to be the last conversation, the last real one. There had been mostly stilted silences after that. Slammed doors. They didn’t have anything else to say to each other, it turned out. Although they’ll need to discuss it soon— _now what?_ He’s been meaning to call since he, since Ben. He will. Once they’ve talked.

Han doesn’t turn when he hears the first shuffling behind him, the hum from the ‘fresher, and the almost-silent padding of two sets of bare feet down the corridor after. 

“There’s caf in the mess,” he says, without looking back, finishing the last of his readouts. “And breakfast.” It’s only reconstituted protein mashed with milk and a little sugar paste, but teenage boys aren’t picky, he knows. Just always hungry.

He does turn to watch them as they slide into the booth with plates and mugs in hand. Ben’s taller since his last visit and not quite at ease with it, gangly still. Ears conspicuously covered by the longer haircut, although it suits him. He’s looking calmer, more at peace than he has since they left Luke and the Temple. Is shooting quick, reassuring glances in the direction of their guest. And of course that’s taken his mind off things—how could it not? There’s no forgetting how he’d been watching him when the two of them were curled up in his bunk earlier: tender, protective, reverent, a little awed. Absolutely smitten, in other words, if Han knows his kid. 

He remembers every broken-winged bird Ben ever brought home, cradled in his hands.

For his own part, the other boy seems inclined to keep close; although he’s not quite touching Ben, he’s scooted as near as he can without, is halfway sheltering in his shadow. He fixes Han with a periodic wary look, eyes searching his for some sign of what he’ll say or do. But he’s not so concerned that it puts him off his food; he still digs in with all the gusto of a Corellian stevedore on his lunch break. He’s skinny, and not only because he’s tall. Also underfed. Pale in a way that suggests he hasn’t been living under any particular star. Han would figure him for a station rat if not for the way he’s sitting, very straight, and eating, neatly if fast.

“So, Red,” he says, without preamble. “How’d you sneak onto my ship?”

Ben opens his mouth to answer for him, but Han waves him off, waiting for a response.

The kid swallows and stares back. “It wasn’t difficult. The overrides on antebellum craft are rather standard.” His intonation is crisp and clear; it also sounds like an imitation of something—oddly, puts him in the mind of those karked Imperial recruitment holos. “I waited until I saw you leave, accessed the cargo bay, and hid.” 

“And I’m guessin’ you found the smuggling compartments without much trouble.” Although it’s almost tragic how many customs agents still don’t think to look after all these years.

“Luck, really. The last ship I was on, they were behind a wall. But you knock on enough panels and—” He shrugs.

“Think about stealin’ her?” 

This question seems to startle him. He blinks and rolls his mug between his hands. “Maybe.”

“What kept you?” He’s more curious than anything. Isn’t too worried about a waif who’s still all knees and elbows shaking them down. 

“Your computer. It’s unusual. I didn’t have time to crack it. ” He ducks his head, chances a look at Ben, then away again. “And I—didn’t really know where I wanted to go.” He scowls at the table. This is apparently the harder point to acknowledge.

“Just anywhere but home, huh?”

His face does something complicated on the word _home._ Anger. Hurt. A rawness, like despair. Not the first time Han’s seen that look on a kid’s face since the war and probably not the last. The galaxy hasn’t changed that much, although it was supposed to. “Yeah.”

“About that. Someone gonna come looking for you?”

And that gets his attention quick. His expression goes pure panic for a moment and it must hit Ben, too, because he puts out a hand to steady him, long fingers curling over his shoulder. No mistaking the way he leans into the touch either, immediate and grateful. Han studies his own empty mug, giving them some time. 

“I. I don’t know,” the kid admits eventually. Voice much quieter now. Then, more to himself than Han or Ben: “No. He wouldn’t. He doesn't care.”

No need to ask who this particular bogey is; there’s always one, whether he put those fading bruises on his face there personally or not doesn’t much matter. 

Han exhales, tries to relax his jaw, finding it’s clenched. “You talked to the _Falcon_ ’s computer, you said? The chattier droid matrix, I’m guessing,” he suggests, changing the subject. He’d seen it, this morning in the data stream. No tampering as far as he can tell. Just inquiries and responses.

“Some,” the kid says. He lets out a small breath. “She’s…complicated.” 

He laughs. “She is at that. You good at that—computers?”

He frowns at the implication. “I’m not a slicer.”

“Never said you were.”

“I like machines,” he allows. “Especially ships.”

“Know much about ‘em?” He offers a smile at his hesitation, coaxing. “C’mon, Red. Don’t be modest. I have a feeling it doesn’t suit you.”

He sits up straighter still. “I had top marks in mechanical engineering and applied physics.”

 _And who was teaching you that?_ Han doesn’t ask, although whatever is going on there can’t be good. Maybe he can get more out of him before they make their next port, might try once he’s unwound a little. But it won’t help to spook him.

“I’ve got a crate of central processors that need reprogramming before resale. Want in?”

“ _Dad_ ,” Ben interrupts, all disapproval. And stars, the kid sounds so much like his mother sometimes it’s almost scary.

Han lifts both eyebrows, feigning innocence. “What? If Red here has an interest, he can stand to make some credits, book an honest passage on the next boat. Thirty?” He turns his attention back to the kid.

His mouth quirks, and he taps his lips, thinking it over. It’s not a bad face for sabacc, if inexperienced. “These are—secondhand processors?”

 _Stolen_ , in other words.

“Could say that.”

“Then fifty credits seems like a fairer fee,” he declares. “You know, considering.”

Han barks a laugh. “Thirty-five. Don’t forget I'm giving you a lift to the next starport.”

“Forty.”

“It’s a deal. You got a name, Red?” He stands, feeling the ache in his back. Shouldn’t have slept in that damned pilot’s chair again.

“Armitage.”

Han lets out a low whistle. “Now that is a mouthful. I don’t suppose you’d answer to Armie?” That earns him a distinct nose twitch. Definitely not. He laughs again. “Red it is, then.” He moves to leave.

“Did you mean that?” Armitage asks before he can.

“I always mean a nickname, kid. Fair warning: they stick.”

“No—I can have a lift? To the next starport?” And he’s been playing it pretty cool so far, but there’s such naked hope in his eyes that it makes Han want to ruffle that bright hair. 

“‘Course. Can’t exactly leave you drifting on the side of the trade route, can I?” He squints at Ben. “Why, what’s this one been telling you?”

Ben coughs and looks away. “I may have, uh, exaggerated. What? You were asleep.”

“Yeah, about that. You wake me up next time, understand? And get the extra bunk cleared out, would you?” He hasn’t used that space in a decade, the small berth above the Dejarik table, hasn’t taken on passengers in more than that, not since they rearranged the Falcon for—well, they had been a family for a few years at least. 

“Yeah, Dad.” Ben rolls his eyes. “I’ll move all the supplies. Again.”

“That’s my boy. You can update the inventory while you’re at it.” That shouldn’t relieve him so much, that simple gesture and the clear exasperation in his voice, but it does, such a normal teenage response despite everything. In a way, that’s all he really wants for Ben, for him to be moody and embarrassed and sarcastic, for him to sit next to a boy he likes, for him to roll his eyes at his old man and grouse about chores. But it’s never been that simple.

So, yeah, there’s still that conversation, the _now what_ , which is going to take a lot more than his gruff, mercenary pirate act and a pile of tech to fix. They could have it now; Armitage rises to tend to his dishes and Ben’s, no doubt following some ingrained routine. No, not a station rat at all. It’s almost military, his bearing, the careful way he works, even scraping bowls, rising mugs. Meticulous.

Han scratches the back of his neck, thinking, aware of Ben’s attention, that knowing look he has. He was born with old eyes, their kid, and it had been unsettling at times, raising a son who could overhear what you were thinking. Not to mention difficult. 

And sure, plenty to regret there. 

But now’s not the time for that. Ben’s waiting for him to say something. It’s his damn  _job_ to say something, the right something. Only it’s so much more complicated than a scraped knee. More lasting than a nightmare. He’s been thinking on it all week, but the words still aren’t there. 

What can he say? _Sorry the whole Jedi thing didn’t work out, son_. _You have your choice of scoundrel or politician now. I know, more or less the same thing_. Kriff. His kid deserves better. 

He sighs. “I’m going to hunt down those processors for Red. Come see me when you’re done.”

 

* * *

 

He’s not really hiding in the cockpit. If he were going to pick a place to hide on the _Falcon_ , it wouldn’t be there. It’s not a bad spot to sit and listen, though. He can hear snatches of conversation down the corridor, the murmur of back-and-forth between Ben and Armitage, followed, occasionally, by a louder burst of laughter. Ben laughing.

Han could like Red for that alone.

No, he’s not hiding from his own kid. He wouldn’t do that. He _is_ staring at the navigational charts, hoping he might find an answer in them. The truth is, he hasn’t laid in a course yet, hadn’t when they left Kadesh Prime. They’re just following the Celanon Spur until he thinks of where to go next. 

“Pretty sure Coruscant is that way,” Ben says, coming up behind him. He drops into the co-pilot’s seat, motioning vaguely out through the viewport.

“Not even close.”

“The other way, then. But we're gonna have to face her eventually.” He sounds about as morose as Han feels. “Does she know?”

“Not at all of it." He’d sent Leia a short holo when he heard from Ben, another when they’d left Luke. “Then, I don’t know all of it either,” he points out. He doesn’t ask—won’t demand answers. It’s an overture, nothing more.

_You can talk to me, kid, you know that._

Ben’s quiet for a long moment. He scrubs one hand over his face. Too weary and adult of a gesture for a seventeen-year-old. “It was a voice,” he says simply.

Han waits.

“At first, it was only when I was alone, mostly at night. It would tell me I had a great destiny, a heritage that I was owed, and that I was better than them, the other students. That Luke was holding me back on purpose, because he was afraid. That I could have all the power I wanted and I—“ He shakes his head, eyes wet. Swallows. “It doesn’t matter. It was lying.”

It’s such a small, useless thing to reach out and squeeze his arm right now, but that’s all Han has, unequal, as always, to the cosmic push-and-pull between good and evil that’s been shadowing his steps since he met Luke Skywalker in a dusty bar on Tatooine. He’s never belonged in that fight. The mundane struggles have been more than enough for him. The shadow of the Empire over the galaxy. Power, fear, money. The ordinary desperation. Sentients wanting to survive and be free. That he knows.

“It started sending me visions. And _instructions._ It was happening more often. I got scared. What it was telling me to do—I. So I went to Luke.” 

He does his best to follow what Ben describes next, a mental battlefield he can’t quite picture, Luke and Ben facing off against this whispering other, something called _Snoke_ , yet another ancient evil waiting for an opportunity, that had gotten its hooks in Han’s kid. How they had severed the connection, not killing Snoke but injuring him. How Ben had felt, had _known_ Luke would reject him now, see him as corrupted by the Dark. How their bond had fractured afterward. Irreparable.

“He didn’t mean for me to know that,” Ben says. “But it turned out to be true, what Snoke said. Luke was afraid of me.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “There’s something wrong with me, Dad.”

This last whispered so softly, a confession too terrible to be uttered aloud, even here in this narrow space, just the two of them.

Your kid trips and falls, bumps his head. You wait to see if he cries or if he gets up again on his own. _He’s fine_ , you might tell another, less experienced adult who's fretting over it. _Just give him a minute_.  

The cockpit of the _Millennium Falcon_ has never been an ideal place for hugging. Still, it’s seen its fair share over the years, usually the sort of relieved embraces following a daring escape, whether from the clutches of an Imperial star destroyer or a tentacled monstrosity at the center of a maelstrom. Entirely different from this, Han trying to get his arms around over six feet of kid—and hadn’t he fit in the crook of his arm not so long ago?—in these cramped quarters and ignoring the snuffling way he’s crying now or the increasing damp at the collar of his shirt or the sting in his own eyes and holding on as best he can. 

 _Give him a minute_.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t look at the chronometer so he doesn’t know long it is before the two of them to settle back the way they were, in the pilot and co-pilot’s seats, but it takes time. Ben’s looking at the navigational charts with him now, the same hesitation on his face. His brow furrows.

“You don’t have to, you know,” Han reminds him, although it’s just occurring to him. “Go to Coruscant, I mean. You should see her, yeah, but that doesn’t have to be—you know. Where you stay.”

Ben’s eyes go round at that, and good bet he hadn't thought of it either. “You mean that?” he asks. Echoing Armitage earlier. His voice, too, as hopeful. Almost afraid. Not quite believing it.

And Han doesn’t know exactly what he’s offering these two kids, what he _can_ offer, really, but—maybe. Maybe. “Sure. Say we’ll fly around until you figure it out. If you want.” Adds: “I will have to take the odd job or two to keep you fed.”

“ _Legal_ jobs?” Ben asks. Skeptical now.

“I’ll do my best?” Han tries. Makes a helpless gesture when he scowls. “Look, you don’t want me to lie to you, right? So I’ll do my best. I can’t promise, but I'll try. Deal?”

He sighs, but relents. “Deal.”

“That’s, uh, settled then.” He casts a look over his shoulder, into the corridor. “It’s been a while. Red’s probably wondering what happened to you.”

His eyelids flutter the way they do when he’s concentrating on the Force, the same way Luke’s always did. “No, he’s barely noticed. One of those processors has a glitchy interface. I think he’s trying to fix it.” _Cute_ , he almost says under his breath. Unmistakable, too, the small smile tilting the corners of his mouth.

“Oh, is he?” Han asks. He doesn’t bother to hide his knowing look, relieved to slide into that shit-eating grin, and Ben, being Ben, doesn’t miss it.

“Dad,” he says, warning him. Glaring at him. "Don't."

“All right, all right. Don’t get your back up, kid.” He waits a beat, letting his expression grow more serious. “You _do_ like him, though, don’t you?”

“Maybe. Why?” He huffs a breath into his hair, displacing it. “Are you telling me—not to?” The set of his jaw goes stubborn in a way that’s all too familiar, hazel eyes flashing, and, oh, he is so like her sometimes it should hurt. It does. 

Han gives him his best _Remember who you’re talking to_ look. “Not even a little,” he says. “But a word of advice?"

"Can I stop you?"

"No."

"Then fine."

"He’s obviously been through something. A whole kriffing lot of something by the sound of it. And you don’t know what he had to do to get out of it. You don’t know what he _still_ needs to do. I won't tell you to stay away from him. You wouldn't if I did. Only—“ What? _Don’t go getting your heart broken._ But how can he say that to a seventeen-year-old kid? Their hearts are just about made for breaking. “Keep it in mind, will you?”

Ben considers this, thoughtful. “All right, I will.” 

“Good.” He pauses, letting the moment pass. “Now, I don’t need to have another talk with you, do I? _The_ other talk?”

It takes him a moment—and possibly some light mind-reading—to understand, but his face flushes deep red when he does. “ _Dad_. No.”

“You sure? You can’t believe everything you see on the holonet, you know, it’s not accurate—“

“ _Dad_ ,” Ben scrambles out of his seat, mortified. “I’m _seventeen.”_

“Yeah, and you’ve been in monk school since you were eight.”

“It’s not—Luke taught us about—“

“Luke? What does he know about it? He’s never even—” And fair, if half of what Han’s heard about him and Wedge Antilles is true, maybe Luke knows more than he thinks. Then, it had been like that in those days, when no one knew who would still be around after the next battle, the next mission, hells, the next cycle. Who knew all that went on and between whom. 

He might have, too, if he hadn’t been so preoccupied with a particular princess at the time.

“We’re not having this conversation!” Ben yells over his shoulder as he flees the cockpit. “And think quieter!”

 

* * *

 

What follows is, somehow, one of those rare unremarkable days. Han plots a course to Nori Station over Uyter, where there’s some mostly-legal cargo waiting for him; it’ll put them close to Kashyyyk, too. He’s been lucky so far, but it’s never gone well in the past, the _Falcon_ being without Chewie for too long. He sends a message with their estimated date of arrival. Doesn’t mention the new addition yet. He’s already decided to offer Red a chance to stick around and earn his keep—the kid is making it through those processors in record time—but he might not take it. May feel the need to keep moving. Han can understand that.

He and Ben re-inventory the cargo. He finds an abandoned shipment of t-shirts that say something either ironic or incredibly offensive in Gunganese, which he gives to Red. He’ll see about getting him some other basics on Nori, whether he stays or not. He’s not going to send the kid running around the galaxy in Ben’s homespun padawan cast-offs, looking like some kind of refugee wizard's apprentice. Ben could use some upgrades, too, for that matter. 

He keeps an eye on the chronometer. Galactic Standard, of course, follows Coruscant local time. Afternoon there, which means she’s probably taking meetings. She’ll take them through dinner, will probably forget to eat, and head back to her apartments bone-weary, feet aching, and finally un-pin whatever elaborate hairdo she’s wearing these days. He used to rub her shoulders while she was in the bath, listen to her talk about her day, tell her about his, everything she missed with Ben. She cried about it some nights. Most times he didn’t do it to hurt her; occasionally he did.

The boys play Dejarik after dinner; Han drinks beer and watches Red wipe the floor with his son half a dozen times. “Why don’t you cheat?” Armitage asks finally. Taps his temple to indicate what he means. “You could tell exactly what I’m planning if you wanted.”

That’s a surprise, that Ben’s already let on what he can do with the Force. Then, he’s probably out of practice at hiding it.

That might be another talk. They'll see.

“Wouldn’t be fair,” Ben says. He’s a little sulky about it, has never been a good loser. 

“We were taught to use every advantage. _Fairness_ is only something the weak use to undermine the strong.” He recites this last, not his words, obviously drilled into him.

“People don’t like having their heads messed with. You’d stop playing, wouldn’t you? If I cheated?”

That had been a hard lesson, an early one. One of the reasons they had sent him to Luke.  It would be easier with other children like him. Equals.

Armitage frowns, considering this. “I suppose. But in a way, you’re letting me win. I don't know if I like that either.”

Ben shrugs. “Want to go watch a holofilm instead?” They get up, heading toward his bunk; he pauses in the doorway. “It’s 22:00,” he tells Han. Knowing. “She’ll be home.”

“Yeah.” 

The datapad is a newer, nicer piece of tech than anything else he owns, with a direct connection to her private line. She gave it to him the last time he split. _In case you ever need to get in touch._ She’d added _, About Ben._ As though he might mistake her intentions, as if there was any mistaking how they had been with each other then. No longer shouting. Just strained. Distant.

Leia answers quickly—like she’d been waiting. And there they are, those familiar eyes, dark and eloquent and so tired. “Han. How is he?”

“He’s all right,” he assures her. “He’s better, anyway.” He relays a little of what Ben told him earlier. Omits the parts about Luke, the alienation he had felt from him after. That’s between them, he figures, if they want to talk about it. “Luke said he should be safe for now. He’s looking into this thing—this _Snoke_ , whatever he is.”

“I should have known something like this would happen.” Leia sighs.

She’d always been ready to castigate herself for failing Ben, maybe since the moment he was born. Han shakes his head. He’s played into that too many times before. “Probably we all should have,” he tells her. Keeping his voice gentle. “Given the—family history. But he’s okay, Leia. He’s hurting, yeah, but he’s okay.”

“Does he know about—?”

 _About Vader_ , she doesn’t say. They almost never use his name.

Han shakes his head. “I think he has some sense of it, but he didn’t ask. We’re going to have to tell him.”

Another argument exhumed.

“Yes,” she agrees readily. “We can tell him. Together. When you get here.”

“Right. About that.” He scratches his neck. It’s his tell, and he knows she knows.

“Han.”

“Coruscant’s a big place,” he points out. “Busy. Lots of people. Overwhelming, especially if you’ve been living on an out-of-the-way moon and meditating for nine years.” He tries not to make it sound like an accusation.

“I can meet you on Chandrila—“

“That’s a possibility,” he allows. “But give me a month or two?”

“A _month.”_ And the old sharpness is back, just like that.

“Or two,” Han says. Trying not to respond to it. It’s not fair for him to do that, when he has Ben and can see and touch him and confirm that he’s all right, that he’s whole. As whole as he can be, at least. “Look, I offered him some time. To adjust.”

She purses her lips. “And in the meantime, you’re what? Going to drag him to back-room negotiations in every cantina between here and the Outer Rim?”

“You’ll be happy to know that I’ve been limited to lawful dealings only for the foreseeable future. Your son told me that. It was one of his conditions.” 

If he squints, he can see the faintest glimmer of amusement. “Was it now?”

“Turns out between you and me and Luke, we raised a semi-respectable human being. Go figure.” He shrugs. 

She sighs again, all exhaustion. “You’ll keep me informed?”

“We can send you a holo every day, if you want.”

“I want to hear from Ben.” 

“You will. He’s in his bunk now,” he amends. “But I’ll make sure he calls. Soon.” 

It would be too much, he decides, to mention the stowaway tonight. Much as he wants to, to say, _Our kid has a crush_. To explain to someone how it had felt earlier, seeing the two of them, Ben’s arms wrapped so tightly around Armitage. And he had, he realized in that moment, always wanted that for Ben. Not necessarily romance—it doesn’t have to be that, even though he’s obviously head over heels already—but that genuine connection between people that the Jedi always seemed to lack. He loves Luke, trusted him with Ben and knows he did his best, but he’s so kriffing _lonely_ , standing apart from everything, facing down the Dark even now. 

Han wants more than that for his son and damn the cosmic implications. 

But it’s late and she’s tired and there’s still too much between them, the debris from their former life scattered like an asteroid field, almost unnavigable, no saying that wouldn’t be the beginning of another argument, another milestone he’s throwing in her face, rather than something they can share.

“Is there anything you need?” she asks, breaking the silence.

 _Credits_ , she means. But he lets himself say, instead, “You could tell me about your day.” Wanting that.

Surprise flicks across her features, usually so schooled. “Oh. Well. All right.”

He leans back in his chair, listening as she begins to talk, the sound of her voice washing over him, and if he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend nothing has changed at all.

 

* * *

 

It’s later, much later, when he hangs up, not that it really matters on a ship, the stars as bright, as glimmering at noon galactic as they are at midnight, but he feels it, that sort of late-night sensation after a long day, even in the deepest reaches of space.

He managed, at least, to keep from saying _I love you_ when they hung up; the last time he made that mistake, she had replied _I know_ so softly, so gently it still stings.

Ben’s bunk is quiet as he passes, the holoprojecter dark. They’re curled up, asleep, and they shouldn’t fit in that narrow space, that many gangly limbs, but somehow they do. Ben has one arm thrown over Armitage’s waist, the two of them nestled together, sharing a blanket and pillow. One of them—it sounds like Ben—mumbles something, not awake, half-dreaming, and the other murmurs back, nothing conscious, just an instinctive response. Comforting.

Tomorrow, he’ll remind them that Red has his own bunk now. Find some task to keep them busy. Tell Ben to call Leia. Think more about what’s to come.

For now, though, it’s enough: his ship, his kid, the stars. The rest can wait.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The next part will have more action-y bits and delve into Armitage's story, I promise. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> ([tumblr](https://callmelyss.tumblr.com))


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